


Some way we both should understand

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Black and Blue [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Power Play, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, angsty smut? smutty angst? you pick, you'll never convince me that sex between these two isn't always about who's in control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9233960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: A difficult time. A visit from Richelieu. Captain Treville realizes that he's more vulnerable than he thought.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally finished s3 and I'm bitter, so I'm countering it with angsty porn.

I should find  
Some way incomparably light and deft,  
Some way we both should understand,  
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

(T.S. Eliot, _La figlia che piange_ )

***

“There’s been another shooting,” Athos says, appearing at the door of Treville’s office.

“Do we have men on the ground already?” the Captain answers, as if his heart hadn’t just sunk to the bottom of his stomach.

“The two agents who reported it. I’ve already dispatched more. Along with forensics, of course.”

“How many victims?”

“Just one, they said. Young male, twenty-something. The shooter escaped.”

The relief that floods him at Athos’ words makes Treville feel dizzy. “Of course.” He gestures for his subordinate to leave. “You know the procedure.”

“Sir.”

As Athos clears the entrance, Treville exhales slowly through his nose. They’re in the middle of what looks like a full-fledged war between gangs, and it’s escalating. Nothing that Treville hasn’t seen before, of course. Only, he thinks bitterly, the last time it happened he hadn’t slept with one of the men in the middle of it.

It’s not just the irrational fear that grips him every time there’s news of another death. It’s the need to constantly second-guess his actions, ask himself if he would have done the same if he didn’t know Richelieu was involved.

Considering that anything the police does will either harm or advantage the Red Duke’s faction, the answer is always _no_. Sometimes he imagines having to defend himself in court, claiming that his past with Richelieu didn’t influence his choices on the job. If it ever comes to it, he doesn’t think he would be able to lie.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needs this to be over, and soon.

***

He stumbles back home late that night, too late for any attempt at a proper dinner. It’s been at least a week since he last had time to cook. He really needs to find the time to buy more canned soup before he runs out of that as well.

As he stares at the microwave turning, he resolutely doesn’t think about coming home and finding dinner ready, or about cooking for two when Armand was the one running late.

While he eats, he re-reads Constance’s notes on the latest round of criminal activity. She’s the criminologist who consults for the DRPJ, and not for the first time, Treville is glad that he asked for her opinion on the current situation. She agrees that what’s happening are not isolated episodes, and that Paris’ criminal underbelly is stirring. She’s also sure that Richelieu’s organization is smack in the centre of all these events.

The printed lines have started to blur before Treville’s tired eyes by the time he finally decides to go to bed.

***

He dreams of Armand clinging to him, begging him to let him come as he sucks him off in his own bed. (It was _their_ bed, in the dream, just as he’d secretly started to think of his apartment as _their_ apartment, before – before.)

He wakes up achingly hard and angry in that distant, muffled way that follows from an impossible dream. He rolls over to finish himself off with a few quick strokes, hiding his face in the pillow as he comes. As he stands up and contemplates the mess he made, he wonders why he couldn’t at least wait until he got in the shower.

 _Pathetic_ , he thinks, as he strips the bed and throws the ruined sheets in the washer. He hopes that the 36 at least has fresh coffee this morning, or he wouldn’t know how to face the day.

***

The next eight hours bring two more shootings, five arrests, and a pounding headache for Captain Treville. (The six cups of coffee he’s had since lunch may have something to do with that.) When he finally decides that he’s had enough (after he’s shouted at Aramis for something he can’t even remember, and sent d’Artagnan to the wrong location twice), he heads home, with plans for something resembling proper food and (if he dares hope so much) dreamless sleep. As he enters his apartment, he almost doesn’t notice that the light in the hallway is on.

_Wait._

He moves slowly, regretting the habit that made him leave his service pistol in the drawer beside the entrance.

Richelieu is sitting on his sofa, in the middle of the living room. He’s hunched over, as if he was trying to make himself smaller. There’s a fresh bruise on his face, not yet fully formed, stretching from where his chin rests on his joined hands to the corner of his eye. He’s still wearing his coat, but no trace of a hat.

He looks tired. He looks like he’s allowing himself a moment of weakness, unaware that Treville is watching him.

Treville doesn’t doubt for a second that he knows he’s there.

“At least take off your coat,” he gruffs, walking into the room.

Richelieu has the good grace not to pretend he’s startled. Still, as he stands up, his lips distend into a small smile, and it’s enough to make Jean wish he had the strength to kick him out. He doesn’t, though, so he takes Armand’s coat when he hands it to him ( _not_ taking it off his shoulders, no).

Then he stops. The coat hanger is in the hallway, beside the main door. Where his gun is.

He doesn’t want to leave Richelieu alone in his house, not even for the time it would take him to walk out of the room and back.

He drapes the coat on a chair. His neck itches with the weight of Armand’s gaze, no doubt noticing the nonsensical gesture.

When he turns around, Armand is right behind him. He didn’t even hear him cross the room.

Armand is the first to move, raising his hand to trace the contour of Jean’s jaw. He skims his fingers over his lips, mapping the bridge of his nose, the corner of his eye. His own gaze is simultaneously far away and focused, as if Jean’s face were the only thing that matters.

Jean feels like he’s being gutted.

Armand is the first to move, but it’s Jean who breaks the stalemate, surging forward to crash his lips against Armand’s. He presses on, chasing him until Armand’s back is against the wall. He can feel Armand’s erection pressing against the inside of his thigh.

His mouth leaves Armand’s only to move down, biting and sucking at his neck, just below his jawline. High enough that no collar will be able to hide the bruises that are forming.

(He doesn’t think of the bruise on Armand’s face, or of who may have put it there.)

Armand shivers, and Jean can feel it all over, in all the places his body is plastered against Armand’s.

“Jean –” he pants.

“Don’t,” Treville snaps.

“ _Don’t_ what? Don’t speak?” There’s the barest hint of teasing in Armand’s quivering voice, and underneath that he can hear naked desire, and hope, and – and yes, that’s exactly why Jean needs him to shut the fuck up. He answers with a sharp nod, focusing all his attention back on Armand’s cock.

It’s not long before he can feel that his concentration is paying off. Despite Armand’s efforts at restraint, he’s shuddering and gasping, twisting his hips in an uncoordinated attempt to match the movement of Jean’s fist. In retaliation, Jean stops, using his weight to pin him against the wall until he goes still.

“Jean, please –”

He knows that tone. _(“Get out of my house.” “Jean, please.”)_ Rather than answering, he resumes twisting and pushing, merciless, until Armand is coming in hot, thick spurts all over his hand.

He hears him call his name as he comes, a growling murmur deep in his throat. They stand still for a moment, Jean breathless and dizzy with his own arousal, leaning with both hands against the wall, while Armand rests his forehead against his collarbone, eyes closed.

Then Armand’s hands move to grab Jean’s hips, and one heartbeat later he’s being spun around and pressed against the wall in turn. Armand is already on his knees, taking his cock in his mouth.

There’s not much space for coherent thought after that. Jean is dimly aware of fisting his hands in Armand’s hair, reacquainting himself with the feeling of the thin, wispy strands between his fingers. For some reason, he remembers that part distinctly. Then Armand’s fingers move to cup and squeeze his balls, while his tongue sweeps up and down the length of his shaft, and Jean loses himself.

He must have thrust a little too deep into Armand’s throat a time or two, judging from the sounds he makes, but Armand doesn’t move back. He stays in place as Jean comes as well, taking it all, until he’s completely spent and breathless and half-slumped against his living room wall.

The ridiculousness of the situation hits him at about the same time he becomes aware of the sticky feeling of Armand’s come cooling off and drying on his shirt and all over the bits of exposed skin. He pushes himself off the wall, muttering something about getting a towel.

As he leaves the room, he doesn’t look at Armand, who is pushing himself up from his kneeling position. That can’t be easy on his joints, he still catches himself thinking.

In the bathroom, he takes in the sorry state of his shirt and boxers, then decides to throw everything into the hamper. It’s then that he remembers the bedsheets from this morning. _Shit._ He moves his clothes to the washer and starts it. There’s no way the sheets will be dry by the time he needs to go to bed.

Armand’s clothes must be ruined as well. He doesn’t think he has a spare suit lying around somewhere.

He takes a washcloth off the rack, wets it with warm water from the sink. He refuses to dwell on the mental image of himself cleaning Armand up, his hands wiping at his softening cock.

When he finally walks back into the living room, Armand is tapping something on his phone. Treville can’t help but smile at the absurdness of it all – the Red Duke, in his house, his trousers open and shirt untucked, giving out what Treville doesn’t doubt are orders to his subordinates.

The phone has disappeared by the time Jean gets close enough to hand him the wet washcloth. He cleans himself off perfunctorily, turning away to arrange his clothes back into an acceptable state. Jean pretends that the spontaneous gesture doesn’t hurt.

He shakes his head. He’s slipped again, let himself get – well, he doesn’t know what he’s let himself get, but it’s not a good thing.

When Armand turns back towards him, he asks, “What do you need?”

It comes out sharper than he intended, his voice clipped and faltering on the last word. Still, Armand gives him a look that can be best described as smug.

“No need to worry,” he smiles. “I’ve already got what I came for.”

He licks his lips. Not for the first time, Jean wonders why he hasn’t killed him yet.

He’s a cop. He doesn’t kill people.

He takes a step back, putting some distance between himself and Armand. Tries not to look at him. “And what would that be?”

Armand smiles again. “As you undoubtedly noticed, there have been some – complications in my business lately.”

Jean nods. _(Business.)_

“Today, we were met with some, uh, unforeseen developments.” His hand goes up to touch the bruise on his face. “I got involved. Personally. It’s not something that happens often.”

Treville’s jaw tightens. Armand’s eyes flicker down briefly, noticing the movement. “I had no doubt that my – associates would work the situation to our advantage, but that required me to be removed from the equation for a few hours.”

“So you came here.” The edge in Jean’s voice is dangerous.

“I needed a place to lie low. Somewhere safe,” he adds, after a short pause. His throat works as he swallows. There’s bruises lining his neck, Jean’s love-bites just starting to show.

Jean wants to punch him.

“What were you – did you think that I – that I would _protect_ you?” he snaps.

The tilt of Armand’s lips lets him know exactly what he thinks about that notion. Still, at least Jean has gotten a rise out of him. Constance would be proud.

Constance would skin him alive just because of that thought.

“I came here –” Armand starts. He cuts himself off, seemingly at a loss for what to say.

“You shouldn’t have,” Jean sighs, wearily. “Whatever the reason.” Suddenly, all he wants is for Richelieu to get out. (Of his apartment, of his life. _“Jean, please.”_ )

“Then I shall go.” The resolve in Richelieu’s voice is the same that was there on the day he visited him in the hospital, more than one month ago by now. In the past weeks, Jean has often wondered if that was the tipping point, the day Armand realized just how much space was left for him in Jean’s life.

Looking at Armand now, standing in his living room, his skin rapidly bruising with the marks of Jean’s lips, he can’t escape the thought that Armand has always known.

Some of the hurt that comes with that thought must show through on his face, because Armand’s expression does another complicated thing, moving through surprise and anger and understanding and grief in just a few seconds. Jean can see him getting ready to say something else. Reach out to comfort him, maybe.

He can’t have that. Neither of them can.

“Yes,” he says. “Please. Go.”

Armand does. As he retrieves his coat from the chair and puts it on, he turns back towards Jean. The look they share is one of mutual understanding, and it’s unbearable.

As the door closes, Jean sits down in the same chair that held Armand’s coat. He doesn’t know if it really smells like him or if he’s just being pathetic. He hides his face in his hands, even though no one can see him, before he allows himself to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> In other news, this AU is eating up my life. Please, come [on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/) and let's talk about it. For anyone who doesn't know already, I'm also [taking prompts](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/prompts/).


End file.
